


don’t bring me down, i pray now that i’ve found you, stay

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Best Friends, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, fake!husbands lirry, real!husbands ziall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:45:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monday night, he get's the call. And it's all downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. nobody else can rein me in

**Author's Note:**

> my best friends wedding au :)  
> because i looove that film okay?  
> i'ma try to keep this short (maybe like...7 combined one-shots?) because i'm super aware of all the unfinished stuff i have here

“Harry don’t you dare be a wanker again - that’ll be the fourth time tonight!” Liam scolds, throwing caution to the wind as he abandons whispering. People are already staring, what’s a few more?

“Keep your voice down, Li. Wouldn’t want to ruin the _ambience_ now would you?” Harry flashes a grin and Liam turns pink. The review the restaurant gives itself comes across as misguided and pretentious - _which it is_ \- and Harry has done nothing but mock since they walked through the doors and Liam is a little embarrassed to be associated with him.

“I’m just asking you to be civil, and _please God_ do not shoot the messenger. Again. Please?”

“Oh alright. Jesus,” because Liam might be in a persistent mood, but he’s been nothing if not a little too patient with Harry tonight and Harry hates him for it. Hates that he needs Liam to rein him in when he’s taking the pretence too far, “I’ll try. But I get _paid_ to be a wanker, you know?”

“You get paid to critique.” Liam states, taking a gulp of his wine - in preparation for the onslaught, Harry thinks – before calling over a twitchy looking waiter for a much needed refill.

“Yes. And all critics are pretentious wankers who want nothing more than to ruin the reputations of otherwise rather accomplished restaurants.” Harry grins up at the waiter who is – rather unprofessionally - fiddling with his lapel as he awaits Liam’s signal for another refill ( _he’s been serving all night and must by now have deduced that Liam is a nervous drinker and Liam is very, very nervous_ ) and upon feeling Harry’s eyes on him, smiles back, if a little sheepishly.

“You’re _bitter!”_ Liam half shouts, waving his half full glass in Harry’s general direction. The wine swirls, and the waiter winces as it almost spills. Liam catches himself and sets the glass down, embarrassed as the waiter scurries away in relief. Liam’s problem is that a little red wine tends to get him excitable. He’s had nine glasses since they’ve been here.

 _“_ I’m allowed to be! In case you forgot, a critic by the name of Gordon Ramsey had my mother’s bakery shut down. A century old family business down the drain, Liam, all for what? He thought _‘the icing was much too sickly, and the recipe outdated…’_ so if he’s allowed to be a wanker then so am I!”

“Right. I forgot you’re an unoriginal bastard.”

“Oi!”

“Sorry. Maybe I should stop with the wine.”

“I think you should.” Wine makes Liam speak his mind and Harry makes a mental note to never let him drink it ever, ever again, because the truth hurts like a bitch, especially when delivered from such a sweet looking mouth. 

“Sorry.”

“Shut up, you daft sod.” They share a giggle before an older looking waiter invades their space, standing and leaning over the table an unnecessary distance.

“And how was your meal, Sirs?” he says, salt and pepper eyebrow raised, mouth pulled down into a perma-frown.

“Ah we- ” Liam starts, but is interrupted. He has the decency to just sigh dramatically and let his friend get on with being a wanker. Which his friend appreciates greatly, much to the visible disdain of the waiter who might be too old for this shit.

“Well,” Harry starts, and Liam drains his glass at once, half smile plastered on his face, stomach churning with all the rich food and alcohol and _dread, “_ the chicken was dry; overcooked and not at all as fresh as it claims. I wasn’t able to locate my _‘bed of Greek salad’_ , only a single quilt and pillow. One lettuce leaf and a tomato is not a salad, Jeeves. The _Dijon mustard_ was more like pond water. In consistency and taste and amount. We won’t be having desert but we will be having two free bottles of _Gaja Barbaresco_ as compensation if you hope to salvage the reputation this restaurant has startling managed to create for itself.”

To say the waiter had gone white and walked away would be the understatement of the week if not the year. To say the waiter had turned transparent and fled the scene, burning the rubber on the soles of his highly polished shoes, would be accurate.

“Wow.”

“Well…”

“I told you to go for the macaroni cheese! But nooo no, Mr Bigshot Food Critic. You wouldn’t listen as per fucking usual, just did your best to ruin somebody else’s family business into the ground! Jesus, Harry. I wonder why we’re friends sometimes,” and then, “Jeeves? As in…AskJeeves?” His words hold no malice, only a little admonishment with undertones of amusement. Liam’s never been able to deny that Harry’s inner wanker is quite entertaining to watch and he's quite hard to tell off.

“Nobody else can rein me in,that's why,” Harry states simply, “and yes, AskJeeves.”

He shrugs as they exchange a grin and leave the restaurant with a bottle of _Gaja Barbaresco_ each in hand.  

-

“I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah Li?” They hug and if Harry’s hands roam a little lower than Liam’s waistband he pretends not to notice. Until he does.

“Stop trying to feel me up, Styles, this wasn’t a date. I only come along because you’re like a wild horse remember? And I’m your jockey,” Harry laughs at the comparison but he knows it's right. If Harry ever gets a little out of control, Liam is always there, pulling him back – sometimes literally, and usually by the hair at the nape of his neck – and telling him to behave. He’s like the sensible older brother you find yourself wanting to listen to, or the Dad you wish you didn’t have to. 

“Whatever. You fancy me. Come up?” Harry grins cheekily but knows it's pointless. Harry has damned Liam for being straight from the moment they met.

“You wish. And I can’t, work tomorrow mate. The gym.” Harry has damned Liam for being a good person, too. 

“And what If I do wish? I won’t be your booty call though, so this is your last chance. Coming up, Mr Payne?” Maybe it's the thrill of the chase?

“Hazza...”

“You’re no fun! You’d better not ring me later!”

“I won’t, don’t worry!” Liam chuckles and walks away, wine bottle held up in salute until he’s out of sight. Harry sighs happily and fumbles for his keys as he pushes open the door leading into his complex. It takes a good hard shove with his shoulder and a lot of twisting and turning - and almost snapping - his keys, to get himself in. Exhausted by the copious amount of exertion, he plops down onto the couch, eyes half lidded already.

It’s a little while later - when Harry has the bottle of wine almost upside down trying to get the very last few drops of his compensation - that the phone rings.  

“I told you! I’m not your booty call!” Harry giggles, a little worse for wear. The wine's gone to his head and he tries to regret drinking straight from the bottle, but the light headedness is pleasant and his belly is warm and he is fucking _happy_. So sue him. 

“Well I’ll be damned if that’s not the millionth time I’ve heard that, mate. How the fuck are you, Styles?”

And shit. That’s not Liam. 


	2. of naked bodies and mutinous eyes

“Why does it still surprise me to find you like this in my flat?” Liam stretches high and long and on his tiptoes. A small, smooth expanse of skin becomes visible on his stomach where his teeshirt has ridden up and he sharply drops his arms, knowing if Harry sees it, he’ll lunge for it. Because Harry likes Liam’s skin. And he likes tickling it. It’s too early to be tickled. But then it always is.

Harry doesn’t just like Liam’s skin though. He likes his own and he likes to see it as much as he can. So maybe that’s why Liam finds him stark naked in his kitchen near enough every morning.   

“I don’t know mate,” Harry answers nonchalant, back to Liam. And Liam decides that he likes Harry’s skin, too, though he’ll never admit it. Physically, Harry is in excellent natural shape, and his skin is smooth and taut and pale. Liam drinks in the curve of his spine, his prominent shoulders, his bony ankles and of course his arse. It’s not world class but it’s good enough to stare at for a while. And it’s become a sort of nice surprise to see it. “you’re checking me out again.”

“I know. Should I be worried?” Liam bites his lip, eyes mutinously roving over Harry’s tattooed arms, and the dip behind his knees. He wills himself to not look back at his arse, but it’s round and a little peachy and just there and damnit Liam hasn’t seen a bare arse for months. Except Harry’s. So he figures he’s allowed an intent stare or two.

“Extremely. Straight men don’t usually look at their mates arse,”

“No I meant, should I be worried that I’m not used to seeing you naked yet?”

“Oh you should be worried about that too, when people sleep with other people and they’re naked, they get used to it,” Harry still hasn’t turned round and Liam’s not sure he wants him to anyway. He’s seen Harry’s front plenty of times and vice versa, but he doesn’t think he could handle it this early. Or explain away the hard on that would no doubt appear almost instantly in his slacks. Morning wood and all that.

He’s a man. And it’s before noon. Anything at all intimate will turn him on.

“We’ve never _slept_ together, Harry, you just like to invade my bed when you’re pissed,” Liam crosses his arms, remembering not too fondly the numerous occasions an inebriated Harry let himself into Liam’s apartment and crawled all over him in an attempt to get in either his pants or his bed. Liam doesn’t mind much when Harry wants to get in his bed, it’s when Harry wants to get in his pants that things become problematic and Liam is forced to sleep on his couch which, oddly, seems to turn into concrete after eleven p.m.

“You fancy me, though, so it’s alright,” Liam knows Harry is half right – Liam does fancy him. A little. A tiny bit. He’s secure enough to admit he can appreciate the male form, especially Harry, without ever acting on it. He’ also secure enough to admit that Harry’s a pretty fit bloke and, if he was a little more sure of himself, he would definitely pursue him.

“You’re right,” He’s secure enough to tease, too.

“I am?” Harry asks, and of course, those would be the words to make Harry turn around. Liam abruptly sits at the island, hands in his lap. He grins devilishly.

“No. You’re not my type,”

“Have you even got a type of man, Li?” Harry looks thoughtful now, brows knitted at the centre of his forehead, fish slice loose in the hand that isn’t on his hip.

Liam flounders because Harry’s hips are one of his best features, damnit, and he has a way with words, too. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it,” he lies. Morning conversations should consist of _how’s the weather?_ and _what do you want for breakfast?_ and _see you after work_ not _have you even got a type of man?_

Sensing his discomfort, Harry drops the subject and turns back to the large frying pan.

“Omelette?”

“Ham and tomato?”

“Yup.”

“Hm you bet sweet cheeks,” says Liam, inadvertently dropping himself in shit. Again. It’s too early for this. _Tooearlytooearlytooearly._

“Liam Payne! You are shamelessly flirting with me!” Harry accuses, spinning on the spot again. He brushes his curls from his flushed face, and chuckles, incredulous.

“I think it’s the w-”

“You’re stone cold sober! Don’t you dare blame it on the wine!”

-

“That omelette was bloody amazing, God,”

“You say that every time, and I know I’m great, but you’ve really got to stop calling me God!

“Shut up, wanker,” Harry lobs the wet tea towel he’s holding at Liam’s face but Liam ducks and it sails over his head. Feeling a little light (Harry usually has exceptional aim and hits Liam with absolutely everything he throws) Liam sticks out his tongue. Harry pouts sinfully.

“From ‘God’ to ‘wanker’, that was extreme,”

“Well, it’s been twelve hours and I haven’t had a free glass of wine, I’m having trouble adjusting,” and then, “why’re you here anyway? I thought you’d be the epitome of gloom today; you don’t usually drink the high-end stuff.” They chuckle because he’s right; Liam’s the expensive wine drinker and Harry’s the one that feeds his habit by giving restaurants bad reviews and then claiming they will need a free bottle of their finest red to compensate and perhaps sway his review to the more positive side.

They’re a team.

Liam feels guilty but Harry makes him nervous so he needs plenty of good red wine. It’s how things are.

Harrys face falls suddenly, and Liam mirrors him. The mood has darkened within seconds and it’s a little disconcerting. “What is it, Harry?” Liam says, reaching across the island to grasp Harry’s large hand in his own. Harry plays it off, grinning. He’d hoped Liam was a little more oblivious.

“Nothing Li, I’m fine. It’s – I mean, it’s nothing really. Silly. Stupid.” But there’s no fooling Liam. Harry’s sad green eyes are mutinous and Liam thanks them for being so readable.

“Hazza?” Liam squeezes tighter, close to pleading now. Harry just smiles at him, small, evidently trying to hold up but failing spectacularly as his eyes begin to shine.

“An old friend called. He’s getting married on Sunday…”

“Well that’s great! You’re going, right? Need a plus one? Where is it?”

“Ireland but it doesn’t - Li you don’t – _old friend_ …”

“Yeah, I know! You j- oh. _Oh._ Harry, I’m sorry.” Liam is there, then, arms encircled around Harry’s waist from behind, chin on his shoulder, because these are Harry’s favourite type of hug. Liam kisses the hinge of his jaw, and his temple, and rubs soothing circles into his back.

“Don’t be daft. I’m over him. I’m s-so over him.” Harry chokes out, intertwining his fingers with Liam’s where his hands rest on his stomach. Liam bites his lip, and digs his chin further and harder into the crook of Harry’s shoulder trying to elicit a laugh or a giggle or a smile. Harry does neither, only frowns.

He is obviously not over him.


End file.
